


The Wraiths of Sophie's Port

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: A reminder that Pirates of the Caribbean is a supernatural tale, Afterlife, F/M, Ghosts, Haunted House, Modern Day, Spirits, ghost story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 07:40:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22492444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: In its effort to separate Barbossa and Sophie from each other, Death never bargained on Calypso.==>> This is the "happy ending" I have longed to give them.  It immediately followsThe Flight to His Waiting Dove;  however, I'm not including it as part of the arc because so many readers prefer the sadder, more uncertain ending (so do I, really).  Still, the idea of concluding with a ghost story was intriguing and I hope it will give you a smile.
Relationships: Hector Barbossa/Original Female Character(s), Hector Barbossa/Sophie Grantham (OC), Hector Barbossa/The Innkeeper of Grantham House
Comments: 25
Kudos: 32





	1. This Is My Gift To You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [morganskye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganskye/gifts).



> Briefly references _Broken Egg_ and _I Come Before You As But a Servant, Humble and Contrite_.
> 
> The "heart finger" was an old-fashioned way of expressing "fourth finger, left hand" where one would place a betrothal or wedding ring. It was believed that there was a vein in that particular finger that ran straight to the heart.
> 
> Is it any wonder that Barbossa instinctively reverts to speaking his native Cornish when confronted by the most emotional moment of his existence?
> 
> About that snake pendant he wears: while voyaging in the South China seas, Barbossa learned that he was born in the Chinese Year of the Snake. He has the sharp intellect, philosophical acumen, and ambition of the Snake, and is a meticulous planner and hard worker in his chosen profession, but he's also the poster boy for its darker aspects: he's self-righteous, vain, egotistical, petty, judgmental, and highly manipulative. While he utterly lacks it toward anyone else, when it comes to Sophie, Barbossa definitely possesses the Snake's trait of intense loyalty; however, it's always been emotional loyalty rather than physical, something he greatly regretted when it was too late and he finally realized how deeply his unfaithfulness wounded her.
> 
> No matter the belligerence with which we've seen her act, I've always felt that Calypso was rather fond of Barbossa: for his seamanship and unwavering love of her ocean realm, for his fierce intelligence and stubborn pride, for his sheer combativeness that mirrors in many ways her own dangerous nature. Besides, she's had a soft spot for Sophie ever since the moment when, as Tia Dalma, she became aware of her in _What Dreams May Come_.

-oOo-

Although she'd intended merely to convey Barbossa's soul to land so he could rest at the side of his beloved, the innkeeper Sophie, Calypso thought about the couple and remembered how dreadful it felt to lose the man she herself had loved. It was her own fault, of course — she knows perfectly well how wild and untamed her nature is and what the consequences can be when she acts without consideration — but still, she misses the man Davy Jones once was and would give anything to have him back. So, too, she knows there's nothing Sophie and Hector wouldn't do for a life with each other. She's been certain of that ever since the day he carried Sophie into the sea and begged for her life, pleading that she might be healed of the hidden injuries inside that were killing her. 

Calypso cannot give them a regular mortal life — Barbossa's had one resurrection already and that's all he gets, so even if she could resurrect Sophie, it would be pointless since she can't bring back her man — but the sea is a mysterious, ghostly place and she has great power over the spirits of sailors and other souls who are known to her, should she choose to exercise it.

She chooses.

Sophie is the first to appear, standing on an isolated end of the beach and looking out over the sea, watching, waiting, hoping for the black sails that will tell her that her lover is returning. "Come home, Hector," she whispers to the wind. "Come back to me, my love. Please."

A soft spray blows from the waves as Calypso cries for Sophie, feeling the loneliness and pain in which she died. _It won't be long now. Just be patient._

A short time later, Barbossa, his boots slung over his shoulder, breathes deeply of the sea air and strolls down the beach, curling his toes into the sand; first one foot, then the other, feeling the tickle of sand crabs as they skitter out of the way. His long hair blows in the wind, which cools his skin, tangles his beard, and keeps trying to whip the feathered hat off his head. He isn't quite clear what he's doing here or how he arrived, but for the first time in a long time, he's not in pain; nothing burns or aches or hurts; not his stomach, nor his head, nor his leg…

His leg.

Barbossa looks down. _Two feet,_ he thinks, confused. _It bain't possible; did I not lose one?_

He mulls over this discovery, wondering if he should be shocked or frightened, but finding he's neither. The only thing in his heart is a breathless anticipation and a happiness he's not felt in years.

_Happy? Why?_

He spots the answer in the distance: a woman in servant's garb, just as barefoot as he is, her long black hair loose about her shoulders and spilling down her back; and, as he gets closer, he sees that she seems to be searching for something, someone lost. _Peppercorns,_ Barbossa thinks, unsure of why he's thinking it. _Peppercorns an' roast chicken an' th' sharp juice of limes._ He can smell it and taste it; can almost see the hands that offer it to him.

The same workworn, yet delicate hands that, when much younger, accidentally left a dribble of grease on his waistcoat.

He finds he's wearing that waistcoat now, frayed but whole — How is that possible? Did he not wear it out long ago? — but seeing the stain, he remembers. "Sophie? Dove? Be that you?" Her head comes up. "Sophie Grantham!" Has she heard him? Can she see him?

No. Not Grantham, not anymore, not when he gave her his own name on her tombstone and in his heart. "Sophie!" he cries out, beginning to run. "Sophie, darlin'! Sophia Barbossa!"

The innkeeper turns toward him, her hand at her throat to touch the pendant she wears: the snake coiling itself around a ruby. She's afraid to realize what she's seeing, that it's true: that her adored Hector has finally come home.

 _Go on, girl,_ Calypso prods her. _Go to him. Don't be afraid._

"H-hector?" the innkeeper quavers.

It's so soft that Barbossa shouldn't be able to hear it, but he does, and he redoubles his speed, dropping his boots, shedding his baldric, and flinging his weapons aside as slowing him down, his hat flying off his head to lie caught on the rocks. "Dove!" He's screaming now, terrified that this isn't real and she'll vanish before he can reach her.

Sophie's upon him before he can finish the dreadful thought. "You came back!" she cries, rushing into Barbossa's arms and nearly knocking him over. "Ohhh, Hector, you're home! You're home…!"

He can't believe what he's seeing, what he's feeling, but even if it's only a dream, he won't question it; neither do his old inhibitions stop him saying now what she needs most to hear and he needs most to tell her. "My a'th kar, Sophia!" Barbossa cries, over and over again, ten times, twenty times, the Cornish he's not spoken since childhood taking him over; a lifetime and heart full of pent-up declaration spilling out of him as the tears begin to flow. "My a'th kar, my a'th kar, my a'th kar!" Then he hears himself; realizes that she cannot possibly know what he's saying unless he tells her in the language they both understand. "My a'th kar," he repeats softly, the syllables apple-sweet on his tongue. "Means I love ye, an' always will."

Sophie's seen him in sickness and anger and just plain old cantankerous; she's seen him in sorrow, but never quite broken-down sobbing — not like this — and doesn't know if she should be distressed until she sees the smile on his face. "You're here!" she says in wonder, touching his hair, his temples, his wet cheeks, his lips, his neck and his bearded chin. "You're real! I was so afraid…"

"Nay, Dove. I've come home an' there bain't a need t' be afeared for me anymore." Barbossa could stand there forever, losing himself in her warmth, when an unexpected cool wind on his head tells him his hat's gone — that he's dropped all his weapons and everything else he was carrying — and that even in this moment, Sophie would chide him for being foolish if he allowed such valuable possessions to be lost or damaged. "Come walk wi' me," he says as he slips an arm around her shoulders. "Walk wi' me an' take me home."

As they make their way along the beach, picking up what he let fall, it begins to occur to him that it's been many years, but Sophie looks not a day older than he remembers her, and he wonders again about his leg. This puzzles Barbossa until he suddenly understands: she's exactly as she was on the day they last saw each other… and so is he. No use ever to frighten her with the gruesome tale of a leg cut off when he has two of them now, just as he will never know how starkly white Sophie's dark hair turned out of illness and grief.

She wraps her arm about his waist, holding close. "I feel… I feel so strange, Hector. Something's happened, and I'm not sure what."

"It don't matter now, darlin'," he cuts in quickly, knowing it will come to her and that he'll be there for reassurance and comfort when it does. "Nothin' matters 'cept I love ye." From a lifetime of obstinately refusing to speak the words, now he can't say them enough. "Nothin' matters 'cept you an' me."

The stretch of beach leads to a familiar hidden cove, and the aura of Calypso's magic hangs about the place even more strongly now than it did then. _I remember,_ he thinks. _I remember!_ Reaching around the innkeeper's neck, Barbossa carefully removes the snake pendant she's wearing. "Been our custom of late that ye'll welcome me home by givin' this back," he murmurs, fastening it around his own neck, smiling as Sophie touches it, pleased to see it lying at his throat where it belongs. "Well, I be home now, Dove, an' I ain't ne'er leavin' again."

"Promise me, Hector. Please, promise me."

What he must do — what he _wants_ to do — is suddenly so clear. "Aye, I'll promise; an' more'n that: I'll swear it, m' love: no more shall I wander away from you. No more shall I give ye worry or fear, an' no more cause for tears. I be home now, an' here I'll stay." Barbossa removes Sophie's black pearl ring from its chain and slips it on her heart finger, mindful of Calypso's crabs coming up from the sand and out of the water to witness the solemnity of what he's about to say. "Oh, Sophia," he sighs, kissing the back of her hand. "Darlin', I wish I could give ye flowers an' a pretty gown an' th' veil of a bride a-flowin' behind ye, an' I know this bain't quite what ye might have wished for. But though it be but simple vows afore th' goddess of sea an' god of sky, mayhap ye'll choose t' regard it as a proper weddin' jus' th' same." Barbossa looks into the eyes of this woman who has loved him all of her life and beyond death, knowing he's finally doing what they both have long wanted. "Aye, m' wife?"

Tears of happiness drip down Sophie's cheeks to hear herself addressed thus as she replies, "It's the very best wedding you could have given me, Hector…" She shyly corrects herself. "… _husband."_

Calypso smiles as she watches the two of them cling tight and fall to their knees on the sand as they promise everything, one to the other, and she sends a warm swirling tide of seawater to bathe them and give them her approbation while she speaks. _I cannot give back the little one you lost, but I can give you each other and the best of your life together. From this time forth, although you shall be as unseen wraiths upon this island, to each other you shall be warm, living flesh, and all about you will be solid and clean and new: the home you share, these ocean sands, the waves you swim in and, with my help, upon which you may sail. For as long as you desire to remain in this life, Sophia and Hector Barbossa, this is my gift to you._  


-oOo- To Be Continued -oOo-


	2. 2005 A.D.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though the world is much changed after more than 250 years, what remains the same for Barbossa and Sophie is their love for each other. He's still vain and cranky, too, which makes for some very interesting events on the island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "small buggies with awnings" are golf carts; the "two-wheeled vehicles like buzzing bees" are mopeds. Both are typical means of transportation on many of today's small Caribbean islands.
> 
> "Slops" were the plain, utilitarian outfits ordinary rank-and-file seamen wore. Being entitled to show his rank as captain through much finer dress, Barbossa hasn't worn slops for decades; not since he sailed aboard a legitimate ship with the merchant marine.

-oOo-

Sophie's Port has grown large and become something of an attraction for tourists, though of course, that's how Barbossa privately calls it; to the world, it has another name. Travelers come in by ship to sturdy, new docks; not beautiful sailing ships like Barbossa's _Black Pearl_ or _Queen Anne's Revenge_ , but sleek, modern cruise liners powered by huge engines instead of the wind. They're like whole towns — like floating islands — these ships made for landsmen who don't want to feel anything as unsteady as the motion of the sea. The first time Barbossa saw such a ship, with Sophie pressed close to his side, a feeling of terrible sadness came over him; of inexpressible loss. Whether living or spirit, he is, to his very depths, a sailor and always will be, but not on a ship with no masts or yardarms; no ropes to climb or sails to let fly in the wind; one which, as far as he can tell, hasn't even a proper wheel. He's consoled, though, by the many sailboats and occasional tall ship that call in at the harbor. Perhaps not everything is lost after all.

Over the years, the couple has seen unimaginable changes: the lanes in the town are no longer dirt and mud, but well paved, with the elegant horse-drawn carriages replaced by loud, ugly metal boxes on thick wheels that run by themselves and change style just as often as clothing. Then there are the smaller, quieter buggies that shade their passengers with awnings and seem to be extremely popular amongst lazy visitors for getting around, along with vehicles that have but two wheels and sound like buzzing bees. They startle Barbossa at first and frighten Sophie with their banging and rattling, until they remind themselves that they are but ghosts and nothing earthly can hurt them; not even such strange contraptions. And they've learned over time that although they must watch the outside world change around them, once they step within the confines of Grantham House and its property, everything is blessedly familiar and solid and changeless.

The town's bawdy houses and opium dens have been turned into souvenir shops (with a lot of winking to the customers as it's explained what they once were), the old roomers torn down and replaced by small bed-and-breakfasts and vacation cottages, the taverns… well, many of the taverns are still there, but they, too, have been fixed up and rebuilt and gentrified. They don't sell ale-casks and bottles of cheap wine anymore.

There's a tourist information center, where visitors and summer residents can buy maps and learn the history of the area. What they discover is that the town was once a well-known pirate port where outlaw captains brought their ships and their purloined cargo, and made deals to sell it for the best price. One tavern open since the 1680s has known the patronage of many such men, and there's a carved plaque on the wall with the date of its founding and the names of the most memorable captains. One doesn't have to read far down the alphabetized list to find the name of Capt. H. Barbossa, and the barkeep, who knows every detail of the town's piratical history, will tell anyone who asks that he had quite the reputation as a ruthless killer; that, and he was known for the huge feathered hat he always wore, with new and bigger and ever-more-colorful plumes put on it whenever the old ones got too battered. "Quite the fop, was old Barbossa," he always adds as a last comment with a snicker.

_"Oh, aye?"_ Barbossa grumbles whenever he hears how the man tells the story, and he always registers his displeasure at the slight by causing a tankard or two to flip off the bar. _"Fop, am I? Would ye have me dress in rags or mariner's slops? An' what be so funny 'bout m' hat? I like me fuckin' hat, an' I like me fuckin' feathers, too, an' so there!"_

He still wears it, along with all the rest of his handsome captain's regalia — his split-sleeved grey coat with its silver buttons (with the one he gave to Sophie still missing), his lace-trimmed shirt and brocade waistcoat, his sturdy breeches and saffron sash, his leathers and weapons and few carefully-selected bits of jewelry — just as the innkeeper still wears her caps and smocks, chemises and pretty gowns, because for them, such things have never changed and never will. 

Because of them, one unique thing the town has is a genuine haunted house, marketed as such to visitors. It sits at the top of Grantham Lane and was, the story goes, once a quiet, respectable rooming house, with its landlady well-known for her fine cooking. The landlady was also known for something else: she was the mistress of the same Capt. H. Barbossa whose name is on the tavern plaque; and, in fact, his name was found to be on the deed to the inn and its land, as he bought it after her death. Sophie Grantham's plain wooden marker on Lookout Point Hill has long since fallen; it's split and worn and almost unreadable now, having been battered about by centuries of wind and weather, but her name is still faintly there; and, if one looks closely enough, the once-deeply-carved name of _Barbossa_ can just be made out. It grieves Barbossa to see what has become of it, but no matter, when every word he carved that day in her memory will forever be engraved on his heart; and, anyway, what matters a tombstone when he has the warm, smiling woman to hold in his arms?

There is one thing all the stories agree on: Sophie Grantham bore her rogue captain a child, although there's no record of whether it was a boy or a girl; and there's no burial plot to be found, no headstone, no nothing. It's known that she did because historians found old diaries kept by the townsfolk, mostly the women, and all decrying her as a harlot. What they don't know is that their mocking is precisely the reason she chose not to mark her son's grave.

Although Grantham House, as Sophie and Barbossa see it, is solidly built, tidy, and mysteriously stocked throughout with everything they need for the comfortable 18th-century life they've always known, to the outside world it's a crumbling ruin. That's until 1967, when some local residents get together to repair and rebuild it, refurbishing its beautiful woodwork and large kitchen, its old-fashioned parlor, the pantry and utility rooms, and all the bedrooms, especially the one that was known to belong to Sophie herself; everything fixed up to the standards of the time when it was originally built, although the one concession to the 20th century is the addition of modern plumbing. If they are curious, Barbossa and Sophie can choose to discern changes like these made to their surroundings, so they examine it, impressed by the ease of filling the large porcelain bathing tub and kitchen sink with clean, instantly steaming-hot water, and curious about the noisy appliance that replaces the chamber pots; but, because they don't walk in the dimension of the here and now, they cannot use any of these newfangled conveniences. Even in the afterlife, Sophie's still hauling and laboriously heating water from the well. 

The back garden, too, gets a modern makeover, with Sophie's citrus trees — miraculously still alive and occasionally bearing fruit — being chopped down and replaced by new ones; the old being deemed not fine enough to tastefully occupy the space. It upsets her when she realizes what's been done, for those trees were her pride and joy, especially the orange, prompting Barbossa to comfort her and whisper that she should not think of it; that their lives are such that the property doesn't change any more than the house does, and she need not see the desecration that doesn't, after all, touch the world of shadows they share. The orange tree she fed him from is still there, unless she chooses not to see it. 

Repairs completed, the building is reopened as a small hotel with the new name of the _Grantham Lane Bed & Breakfast_, but after awhile, guests nervously begin to report the uneasy feeling of there being ghosts in the house who are annoyed to find strangers sleeping in Sophie's white iron bed or making a mess of her kitchen. There are the occasional lucky few, though, who grin and talk of hearing faint, impassioned growls and moans, the sharp scent of sweat and seawater and sweet castile soap perfuming the air.

In deference to the history of the inn and the woman who owned it, the new proprietors stop renting out Sophie's room, and all is well for awhile, until late one night, a drunken guest staggers into the room and starts rummaging through Sophie's old armoire in which are stored several exceedingly fragile antique dresses, tearing a gown of faded blue velvet in the process.

Awakened from his deathlike sleep, Barbossa goes into a raving fury. _"Will ye destroy that which b'longs t' m' Dove?"_ he shouts, the cold breath of his presence whirling around the woman and knocking her over. _"Pick yerself up, ye damnable cunt, an' get th' fuck out of me house!"_

Scared witless by what she feels but cannot see, she scrambles out into the hallway, screaming about dangerous spirits and no, she's not crazy, and demanding that her husband take her away at once.

Business falls off after that, which suits Barbossa and the innkeeper just fine, and eventually, the building gets a bronze plaque which gives it its old name of Grantham House back and designates it to be officially haunted. The town assumes ownership of the building, caring for it and turning it into a museum where local historians give tours, telling Sophie's and Barbossa's story insofar as it's known. Large groups of people from the cruise ships come to visit, to admire the house and hear the tales, but there's no more talk of anyone staying the night.

One thing that no one ever finds, though, even through all the renovations and landscaping and poking around, is the grave of the infant Alexander Barbossa, where Sophie spends much time just sitting and thinking. "Had he lived, he'd be growed and long gone now, leavin' generations of his own," Barbossa muses, seating himself behind her and drawing her back, his hairy chin resting on her shoulder. "Strange t' think I woulda been a grandfather an' many times o'er a great." Then he kisses her cheek and asks an oft-repeated question: "Tell me, sweet: think me little boy would've been a sailor like his father?"

Sophie pulls his arms around her and nods. "A fine sailor, Hector… and almost, _almost_ as beautiful as you."

Calypso, in her knowledge that forever being unable to sail would be a misery for Barbossa, has provided him with a phantom dory, kept in the secret inlet and seen by no one but the couple. Her one stipulation, she warns him, is that when he takes it out in the morning, he must return it to land before the last light vanishes below the water at sunset, or else his soul will be drawn to rejoin the old, crippled body he left behind and his time of grace with Sophie will be over. Needless to say, he's extremely careful to make sure that never happens, and should a single drop of rain be threatening, he takes no chances and stays ashore. But on fair days, and though Sophie never sailed in life, Barbossa now teaches her the rudiments of assisting him in the handling of the small craft and to enjoy being on the water, so that she becomes his First Mate in every sense.

Now and again, in spite of the obnoxious bartender, they visit the tavern that used to supply Grantham House, and Barbossa always scratches his head over the plaque on the wall. _"'Tis a strange day an' age what makes lists of all an' anythin',"_ he says. _"Truth be, it makes me feel old, like I ain't naught but a dry name in hist'ry."_

_"Nothing dry or old about you, my love,"_ Sophie giggles, going up on tip-toe, her arms around Barbossa's neck and her body pressed tight against his, a warm, fruit-scented breeze in the room hinting at their presence. _"And our history isn't over, and shan't be for a long, long time."_

_"Ye're right, sweet,"_ he replies, nuzzling the top of her head as he gives her a saucy squeeze on the backside. _"Now, come along home wi' me, Dove, for I've a burnin' desire in m' loins an' a hankerin' t' explore all that be softest an' tastiest of yer lovely self……"_

They're not immortal — that, they know — and one day they will grow weary, not of each other, but because they'll be ultimately unable to cope with the impossibly swift changes in the world. But even then, they know Calypso will show them compassion, for on that day, they will retire to their little cove and she'll part her waters to receive them; and, with their arms around each other, Hector Barbossa and his Dove, Sophia, will enter her realm together and finally close their eyes in eternal rest.

  
-oOo-  
And so ends the story of Captain Hector Barbossa and Sophie, his Innkeeper  
-oOo-

-oOo- (for us, but not for them) -oOo- 


End file.
